Dogs and Cats

Otis, by no direct fault but by his very nature, is stressful.

He prowls, wanders and generally doesn't come when he's called.  A dog suffering from A.D.D.

I can identify with small attention spans, but after the fourth time I'm forced to leave the porch to pull dog jowls off the neighbor's hosta plants, my patience is pushed.

Because the dog won't sit still, I'm continually swiveling in my lawn chair, looking for a tail popping out of the garden and asking, "where is that dog?"

We have also have a cat, Emerson.

Emerson is a left over relic of an 21 year-old female's $20 dollar impulse purchase. A purchase that, just a few short years later, would push the boundries of an engagement.

Emerson will attack your calves at 7:00 in the morning forcing explicitives and soccer swing in his general direction.

Otis, somehow, can eat the plaster out of the living room wall and still come out endearing.

I constantly ask, "where is that dog?"

I never ask, "where is that cat?"

Otis Loves Pork

We, and by we I mean Aly, made some beautiful pork chops for dinner tonight.

After we finished eating, we scraped the bones in the garbage can and continued to gather wine glasses and silverware.

As we were wiping down the table in the dining room, we heard a thud in the kitchen.  On the approach we found Otis standing over a partially dumped garbage can with the dinner scraps and various debris scattered on the floor.

Among the remains, was one pork chop bone.  The only problem, we had two pork chops.

Hearing horror stories of animals eating cooked bones and splintering their insides, we Googled "my dog ate a pork bone, what do I do."

If you cannot tell, we are clueless and would make horrible parents.

We found a forum where someone had a dog that swallowed a pork bone and was getting advice from a dog advocate.  The advocate "very, strongly encouraged" the dog owner to take the dog to the vet.  A follow up post revealed that the vet made the dog vomit to dislodge the bone.

Next, we Googled "how do I make my dog vomit?"

Again, completely clueless.

The solution was EITHER one tablespoon of salt OR two teaspoons of hydrogen peroxide.

Being a concerned pet owner, we went with the non-poison first - the salt.  We dumped, what I would guess was, more than one tablespoon of salt into the Goat's mouth.  He chewed it up like Pop Rocks.  You could actually hear his teeth grinding.

We moved onto peroxide and changed venues to the backyard.  Aly dumped no less than two teaspoons of hydrogen peroxide down the Goat's throat.

Anticipating fireworks, we unleashed him.  He looked at us both and started hot laps around the yard.

This dog is not of this earth.

We watched him for a few minutes, when due to cold, migrated inside.  Just as we were opening the back door we noticed Otis had stopped running.

Perched on the neighbor's back door step he arched his back and vomited.  All over the back steps.

Our neighbor was sitting at her counter in her kitchen, working on her computer.  Looking up, it would appear her neighbor, in below 20 degree weather, was shoveling her back porch.

"Albeit random at 9 p.m., what a neighborly thing to do - shovel my back porch," she was probably thinking.

Only three people, well two people and one dog, know better.

I've stopped telling people at work these stories.

67 Cents

Caught in the act! Consuming money. MONEY?! Really?

Otis, our self-asserted bonehead, was found eating coins in the hallway. Pennies, nickels and trembling quarters from my sacred laundry fund, were being funneled down like sour apple tooters.

Brash.  Especially in this economy.

Evidently, organic Dog Chow is less appetizing than hardened nickel and copper.

I was going to scold, but realized he would eventually pay.

Literally.

Pre-Basted

We had our annual Thanksgiving dinner with the ISU crew in Minneapolis tonight.

Scott and Ryan hosted the dinner this year at their place. 24 people and enough wine and food for 40.

I think this is fifth year we've gotten people together. I got home and was thinking about last year's dinner.

Colle+McVoy was nice enough to give its employees gift certificates to a local meat market last year for a fresh turkey. On Saturday morning before the dinner, Aly and I took Otis to the dog park. From the dog park, we took a short detour home to pick up our bird.

We picked out a 25 pounder and got Otis butcher bone. We put Otis and the bone in the far back of the Jeep, the fresh bird in the back seat and started to make our way home.

Going 75 down the interstate, I peek into the mirror and notice Otis had crawled into the back seat. The last thing we needed was a vet visit for a dog with salmonella poisoning, so I hollered at him and told Aly to push him back into the far back.

Aly turns around and her face drops. Crap.

"What did he do? Did he eat part of the turkey? Aly, talk to me," my mouth is moving as fast as the car is moving. I'm trying to turn around and see behind me while keeping us on the road.

White hot heat hits my face.

Otis, in all his glory, had positioned the turkey between his front paws, aimed and vomited on top of a thirty dollar dinner.

With tears running down my face I swerved across lanes of traffic to the first exit. Threw the Jeep into park in a boat dealership while Aly and I ran, gagging, out of the car like it was filled with bees.

We ended up making it home and wiped the bird down. Seasoned the bad boy and cooked it for the group. Halfway through dinner, we made a toast. Thanking friends, good fortune and turkey pre-basted in dog vomit.

Pasta Carnage

It looked like someone gave a pack of pre-schoolers a 2 liter of Mountain Dew and turned them loose in the grocery aisle.

I returned home from work today to discover Otis had weaseled into our pantry where we keep the dry groceries.  Crushed lasagna, spaghetti, rigatoni noodles blanketed the entry way and kitchen.  For an extra kick, chewed potatoes sprinkled the hallway.

Dumbfounded, I went blank as Otis approached me in the hallway.  When he realized I wasn't bending down to pet him, instead bending down to pick up, what used to be, my running hat, his enthusiasm disappeared.

He slinked around the corner.  With the only sound being the side of his ass hitting the ground as he slipped on the piles of cardboard and food.

Animal interaction has to be one of the only forms of testament to your true temperament.  I'm convinced, on judgement day, there's no bells and whistles.  It's just Peter.  With a VCR.  Replaying highlights of every encounter you've ever had with a bird shitting on your suede jacket or a cat puking in your shoes.

Scolding an animal laying in the same position a cooked pig with an apple in its mouth - surrounded by food even - was something out of I Love Lucy.

I started in on exaggerated finger pointing and phony scowling.  Before I could finish explaining to him his list of faults, for good measure, he peed himself.

The Goat

Otis.

A freedom shitting death eagle.

He's earned the nickname "The Goat" because he will eat anything that's not himself.

Usually.

For the past two years, the garbage has been seen as a personal buffet and my socks have been crying out in horror.

After coming home from work this week to discover Otis had treated my tool box like a slow simmered pot roast (a sweat soaked hammer? really?), I decided his destruction needs to be documented.

This may be a list, this may be time to time posts, but either way I need to capture the destruction as it happens - because, everyone at work thinks I'm a liar.